


what of the rhythm and meter

by ruedesgres (smithens)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Ficlet, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27767524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/ruedesgres
Summary: A literary exchange in the backroom of the Café Musain.
Relationships: Bahorel/Combeferre (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	what of the rhythm and meter

**Author's Note:**

> the google doc for this was last updated on june 5 2019 lmfao 
> 
> i might post all the shit i wrote before i moved on to better and brighter and canonically gayer things but at the very least here's this one. halfassed title as always

It was nearing midnight, but the backroom of the Café Musain — with still-burning wood on the hearth and an adequate supply of leftover drink — was more inviting than the snow outside. Although the night's official meeting of minds had long since adjourned, several principal _Amis_ and company remained.

After Feuilly, Enjolras, and Duquesne had departed, deep in a conversation which had begun hours prior, the air at once seemed more clear, less serious. Lègle was content to sit and lose at cards with Grantaire as two irregular society members watched the game, making occasional insincere accusations of sleight of hand. Joly opened a bottle of wine, brought in earlier from a neighboring shop; Prouvaire seated himself cross-legged upon a central table. They had then begun discussing one of the latter's latest small works, just read aloud in its 'final' form, in great detail.

Bahorel, meanwhile, sat backwards in chair near the two, but didn't participate in the conversation other than to interject baudy comments now and then. 

Combeferre watched the scene unfold from some paces away, book open yet disregarded in front of him — it too was poetry, a collection of works in English, gifted to him by an old acquaintance who had just returned from London, and although compelling it required more energy than he was willing to expend.

Eavesdropping, contrarily, required very little of him; he, too, had been present for the development of Jean Prouvaire's experimental poem over the previous weeks, and thus felt invested in its first reception.

He began to listen more intently when the discussion turned from content to criticism.

"But the _style_? What of the rhythm and meter, Jolllly?"

"Oh, I like the style well enough," Joly was saying, "it's quite, _Latin_ , isn't it, that sort of emphasis? Dare I say that I know very little about poetic form before you? ...all in all it sounds very nice, although _do_ reconsider 'ashram' — no, you are a splendid wordsmith as always. It _is_ the topic that disquiets me, Jean Prouvaire. I liked it quite enough as a love poem before the, euh, before you brought in the _brutal_ aspect; even if it is meant to be _Christlike_ suffering as you claim —"

"Italian."

"Pardon?"

"Not Latin. Italian, Florentine, you know, of Dante and the like; if only I could pen it as he. Were it that I could produce in other tongues I should abandon French completely —"

Bahorel interjected: "Jean Prouvaire! you abandon French, do you, and too her nation's traditions? Are you to apply the Italian metre to all your poetry, not only _sixain_? Is your _âche_ now _acca_? Giovanni did not blossom from _Ghiovanni_ — I say, return whence you came: Arnaut might have said _acha_."

Jean Prouvaire rolled to his side, dislodging some papers on the table.

Joly rescued the nearby open bottle of wine with moments to spare.

"You hate it."

"I feel no such thing as hate. Do me a favor and allow me to question your artistic choices. You have written in French an Italian poem using an Occitan form, and thrown in some Greek for the hell of it."

"And Sanskrit," added Jean Prouvaire brightly, curling into his knees. "It is innovative."

Bahorel tipped forward in his reversed chair until the moment Combeferre thought he might fall, and then righted himself. Joly flinched, but said nothing, his eyes darting between the two.

Across the room, the game of cards adjourned.

"Last week you were terrified that it broke the meter; today the meter is broken, and you are dauntless."

"Breaking the meter is precisely what is innovative. You have no right to criticize; you love to break things. Besides, it isn't too broken, only in the end, my stanzas are à la _Al poco giorno_ , with the attitude of the Orient. "

"Am I criticizing you or your friend Dante?"

"Either is hypocritical, Bahorel."

"Hypocritical! Jean Prouvaire, I am principled! And you call yourself a southerner..."

After some time of this back and forth, including some more particular revisions to the poem's form and lexicon made aloud, Combeferre could not restrain himself:

"Bahorel, you are wrong; I am surprised at you. It is no fault to imitate the syllabic structure of the Italian renditions in this case, there is enormous precedent of that which I am certain you are aware of. A penultimate accent in a line of eleven syllables is nothing worth critique, if one intends to follow such poetic tradition, and we must all know by now that if it served for Dante it ought serve for our friend Jean Prouvaire as well. To hear you of all men argue in favor of tradition is laughable. Beyond that, if he attempts to write a sixain he is doing a fine job of it: I noted nine and thirty lines and a proper pattern of repetition, "ashram" taking the place of " _âme_ " in the envoi notwithstanding — perhaps you would prefer it all be repenned in medieval patois and accompanied with a rebec?"

Jean Prouvaire turned the color of a beet, perhaps more due to the ill-timed reminder of the rebec incident than any kind things Combeferre had said of his poem, and in one fluid, cat-like movement put himself back in a chair.

Bahorel gave a crooked smile and shook his head.

"For now, Combeferre, I stand corrected; your passion convinces me. If you are to sing I shall listen."

Combeferre affected a look of nonchalance despite his immense satisfaction, and returned once more to his book, or feigned to. The subject quickly changed to Joly's latest social blunder with the eldest daughter of the lawyer who held office beneath his flat.

Later, as they all filed out of the backroom in succession, Bahorel set a hand on Combeferre's shoulder and murmured into his ear, "I concede nothing to Dante, nor to Petrarca, and neither Boccaccio. Indeed, I suppose I _would_ prefer a rebec and ' _patois'_ , if you are offering to take up the task to appease me."

"I am not," returned Combeferre, donning his overcoat.

Once outside, Bahorel's breath was warm upon his cheeks, his grip on his shoulder firm.

"Wear a doublet for your performance, why don't you," he said, lips at his temple, "our _Ghiovanni_ surely has enough of them to spare."

**Author's Note:**

> for the record i think prouvaire is a great poet in the up and coming french tradition of the time but i also think he occasionally fucks around w/ poetry in ways that you really only appreciate if you really like him as a person already. maybe stick to the usual stuff dude


End file.
